Sweet Agony
by Tempestt
Summary: Buffy's been poisoned, and only Spike has the cure. Takes places between Something Blue and Hush.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. Everything is owned by Joss Whedon and all his affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.

Placed between Something Blue and Hush.

Warning: Explicit sexual content and blood play. But it's Spike so you should have saw that coming. Also there may be some flowery malarkey towards the end, but that's cause I'm an unrepentant romantic at heart.

A/N: The set up is pretty trite. But I serve up trite family style and hand out big honkin' spoons.

**Sweet Agony**

Part One

The statuesque, red-haired vamp cracked and snapped her bull whip like a pro on the lion taming circuit, while tottering on stilettos worn by pros of an entirely different kind. Buffy knew she shouldn't have cut through the cemetery on her way to the Bronze, but she was running late, as per the norm, and she thought to herself, 'hey self, if you're quick you can sneak on by without having to get your slay on.' Yah, right. Lady Luck freakin' hated her.

"Michele Pfeiffer called, she wants her cat suit back," Buffy snarked with a disgusted curl of her upper lip.

"You're one to talk. Sacrificial virgin was so last year."

"Hey, I'm not—" Buffy glanced at her attire. Her white cardigan covered the pale pink tank modestly, while her ivory challis skirt flared a little at her ankles. It did look a little virginal, and not so much with the slayage, but it wasn't like she was out looking for action. She was meeting up with Riley and after the whole 'I'm engaged, not engaged' debacle she wanted to come off as more church-girly and less ho-baggy.

"Sacrificial," Buffy finished lamely. Vampzilla –wow, she was really tall - cocked a thin, penciled brow, making Buffy blush. "My sexual experience isn't your concern, vamp." Especially, since it consisted of only two, and if Cosmo could be believed, inadequate experiences. Hence, the getting with Riley. Yah, he was pretty homegrown, but with a body like that, he had to have some moves. _Please, have some moves_.

"Oh, I don't know. I might be willing to educate you," the vamp purred. "A lick here," she cracked her whip. "A lick there." Another crack. "I could really make you scream for it."

Buffy wrinkled her nose. What was it with vamps and the innuendo? Did they go to a special school? An image of Spike standing at the head of a class filled with eager vamps taking notes floated through her mind. Disturbed, Buffy went on the offensive. "No, thanks. Not when you're about to be porno glitter blowing in the wind." Buffy flourished her stake, only to jump back as the bullwhip snatched the air at her cheek. Her hand flew to her face, her fingertips coming back bloody. After a few seconds the burn set in.

"Hey! Not the face, you bitch!" Buffy was furious. It was an unspoken rule, especially when fighting other women; the face was off limits. No one wanted to walk away with hideous facial scars. What a ho-bag.

"Everything's fair in lust and torture, sweetness." The vamp ran her tongue over her crimson lips, while flicking the nine-tailed flail she held in her other hand against her naked shoulders. Buffy eyed the barbs at the ends of the shorter whip. There was no way the vamp hadn't just sliced her back with that little maneuver. Great, she hated it when they were oodles of crazy.

Buffy straightened, readying herself. Her burning cheek, and the woman's actions, told her this wasn't a fledgling vamp fight. This one was gonna hurt a little. "Before we get started, what's our safe word? You know. So I can be sure to ignore it while I'm stomping your face into the ground." The vamp threw back her head, her laughter musical in the early evening shadows.

Buffy lunged, the vamp dodged. Around and around they went. Buffy dancing between ribbons of leather that were starting to look scarlet in the moonlight, while call-me-Trixxxie with three Xs was looking none the worse for wear. The nasty, leather-wearing, whip-wielding demon was really starting to get on her nerves. Buffy was kept at a distance with every flick of the vampire's wrist, her whip aimed with agonizing accuracy. Whenever Buffy braved the front lines, she was rewarded with fiery licks wrapping around her body that nearly incapacitated her, and if she did manage to bypass the bullwhip to get her stake on, she was beat back by the multiple barbed tails of the cat-o-nine. Her clothes were in tatters, her silky skirt stuck to her skin in a red plaster, and her top threatening to come undone completely. _Great, the one day I don't wear a bra. _And the pain. It was really starting to get bad. Like, curl up in a corner and pray to die kinda way. Buffy wondered if she had any skin left. It surely didn't feel like it. She was being flayed alive and she knew it, and _that_ made her really, fucking pissy.

The long tongue of the bullwhip sailed out, wrapping around Buffy's wrist. Instead of retreating as she had every time the flame scorched her, she wrapped the leather tightly in her fist. She pirouetted towards her attacker, allowing the leather to bind around her torso just under her breasts. Dizzy from blood loss, she wasn't able to check herself and she collided hard with the vampire, knocking her backwards into above ground tomb. Buffy dropped the leather strap and made a quick grab for the vampire's wrist. Still off center she was a little surprised when her grasp was true. Immediately, she bashed the vamp's wrist against the sharp edge of the stone until the nasty, pain-inducing flail dropped to the ground. The Amazonian vampire towered over her by several inches, but Buffy was able to keep her off balance by bending her at an awkward angle over the low tomb. The leverage was all she needed to raise her stake overhead.

"Wait! If you stake me, you'll never—." The vamp exploded into a cloud of dust that instantly irritated Buffy's many wounds.

"I'll never? Cure cancer? End world hunger? Find the right lip gloss to match this cardigan?" Buffy glanced down, remembering her cardigan was long gone. Angered further, she kicked the stone in front of her, wincing as she stubbed her bare toes. Again, not dressed for slayage in strappy, flat-heeled sandals. As she turned to go, a wave of agony rolled over her. Woozy, she braced herself on the tomb, her free arm wrapping around her belly. As the adrenaline from the fight ebbed, she realized she was in serious trouble. She needed to get to Giles. He always knew what to do.

He smelled her before she reached the door. Hot, spicy slayer blood with hints of cloying, candy sweetness. He tensed, his entire body canting towards the door, a quivering anthropomorphism of hunger and desire. Barely containing the urge to vamp out, he slid his predatory gaze towards the Watcher, whose nose was shoved so far up a book's arse he failed to notice his unwelcome houseguest go on point like a hound on a fox's scent.

A thump at the door jerked the Watcher out of his reverie. Giles sharp eyes glanced to Spike, who shrugged in nonchalance. Let the Watcher find his little Slayer chippie bloody on the doormat. Made no never mind to him. He watched with interest from the couch as Giles opened the door, getting himself an armful of limp, bloody Slayer. Giles dragged her nearly unconscious body into the room, forced to lay her on the floor when it become clear she wouldn't be moving under her own steam anytime soon. Giles slammed the door shut and bent down to examine her. She was coated in blood, her tattered clothing sticking to her body like scarlet neoprene.

"Buffy, wake up." Giles cupped her cheek, fatherly concern etched into every line of his body.

"That's not goin'ta work, mate." Spike sipped his mug of blood. Any distraction to hide how excited he was from the Watcher. It wasn't just the blood. It was the singularly sweet candy smell.

"What do you mean?" Giles glared, the crease in his temple made whiter by his worry.

"It's Dulcis Agania. Sweet Agony. She's coated in it."

Giles examined his charge. The deep gouges littering her body leaked with a clear, viscous fluid.

"A poison?"

"Sumthin' like that." Spike could barely contain his glee. "It's how some of the more vicious vampires train their minions to be exceptionally loyal to them." Buffy whimpered, and Spike wanted to rub his hands together in maniacal pleasure. He loved it when Lady Luck dropped into his lap like a horny sex kitten.

Giles frowned down at Buffy. Her face was mostly untouched by whip marks, except for a single slash on her cheek. She was flushed and her scalp was damp with fever, unconscious, but far from restful. She squirmed and whimpered in a manner speaking of untold agony. His slayer was hurting. Grunting, he gathered her up in his arms, struggling to stand.

"Go turn the bath on. We need to flush the poison out."

"Not a brilliant plan, mate." Spike made no move to get off the couch.

"Move your arse, you useless vampire."

"No," Spike spat back. "I'm tryin'ta tell you, Watcher. It'll make Sweet Agony worse. If you put your slayer in the bath, you'll jus' fry her nervous system.

Giles stood with his legs braced apart, his slayer laid across his arms. He glowered at the vamp lounging sardonically on his couch, smirking while Buffy moaned in agony.

"What then?"

For the first time the vampire looked uncomfortable. His eyes skittered away to look at anything, but the Watcher in the center of the room. He inhaled in a way that always dumbfounded Giles before turning his hardened gaze back to his.

"Sweet Agony 's a conditionin' agent. Vamps introduce it to their minion, usually through a good ol' fashioned whippin'." Spikes tongue curled behind his teeth in a manner that made the Watcher shudder. Pain was an aphrodisiac for vampires. He should never forget that. "The agent moves through the blood stream causin' the most exquisite sensation of agony. Once the pain crests to a certain level, the vamp replaces pain with pleasure, slowly transformin' it until the minion only associates their master with ultimate ecstasy. Conditionin' gratitude for the release from such sweet agony. The most loyal of minions are turned this-a-way. 'Course, if the vamp in question doesn't remove the poison, the agony increases 'til the victim's ticker gives out under the strain."

"So this is a way to turn humans into vampires?"

"Not precisely. It's a way to assure their loyalty before turnin'. Seen Darla do it plenty."

"So Angel knows this technique."

Spike saw the gleam of distrust in the Watcher's eyes. Didn't bother him none. Wasn't his Slayer that was writhing. And not in a good way. He eyed Buffy, shoving away the brief interlude of compassion floating through the empty space where his soul used to reside.

"Yeh. It takes a little too much finesse for him, but he's watch Darla. He always likes to watch," His voice trailed off, his eyes distant.

Giles absorbed the information with a patent frown, his eyes roving over Buffy's wounds, and the tight, white brackets around her mouth. Spike was looking at her mouth as well. The same mouth he'd been sucking on only a few days earlier. Spike suddenly found the buttons on the telly remote to be utterly fascinating.

"How do we cure it?" Giles asked tentatively. He was still looking at his slayer so he didn't see the grin that darkened more than lightened the vampire's features, but he heard the salacious growl in his words.

"Thought you'd never ask, Rupes. Takes a special kind of sauce." Giles looked up, disgust unfurling through his chest as Spike ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. "Vamp spit is the only way to ease the burn. The combination of spit and poison turns the agony into pleasure with every swipe of the tongue. And might I say, you're extra lucky I'm the one sittin' here willin' to help you out."

Giles bristled. "And why is that, Spike?" he asked coldly.

Spike just grinned at the man's obvious aversion. "Well, you see. Some vamps can thrall, some can mist, but me? I got the magic tongue. Your slayer gets the added bonus of me healin' up her wounds while cleanin' out the poison." An image of Dru, burnt and raw from head to toe after the mob in Prague haunted him. Not one inch of her had been without pain, and he was the one who took it away from her with every swipe of his tongue. He couldn't restore her power, but he healed her wounds. He did that, not Angelus, not daddy. Him. And how did she repay him? Sodding Chaos Demon.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, mate. You know all about vampire traits. Genetic lineage and all that rot. Inherited it from my great grandmum, I did. 'ad a wicked lil' mouth, that one. Learned all my best techniques from her." Virgin until the bloody end, William didn't know a damned thing about women when he was turned. Dru, the glorious, evil sprite she was, wasn't the educating type, and Spike sure as hell wasn't going to take lessons from Angel. Darla though. A harlot to the bloody end she was. Taught him everything he knew, including how to use pain until it became pleasure. Damn her, sometimes he missed that strumpet. "Claimed it was some sort of amazing Aurelian gene. Me? I think it's 'cause she was a syphilitic whore before she got turned."

"I don't even know why I'm listening to you. There's no way in hell, I'm letting your-" The Watcher eyed his mouth like it was something straight from the devil, and if the chippies could be believed, it was. "Your sputum anywhere near, Buffy. Now move your arse so I can lay her down."

Spike vacated the couch so the Watcher could divest himself of his load. Buffy may be a thin little thing, but holding her for extended period took its toll.

"I'm calling, Angel."

Spike watched as the Giles turned away to pick up the phone.

"Right, then. Makes no never mind to me." Spike fidgeted. A prime opportunity and it was slipping through his fingers. "Jus'…" He looked meaningfully at Buffy.

"What?" Giles snapped.

"She's not doin' that whimperin' thing anymore. That's not so good. But you should call, Angel. See what he has to say, yeah?"

"I plan too." Giles turned away and picked up the phone to dial. Spike didn't bother to listen to the conversation. The idea that time was running out was planted. All he had to do was sit back while Lady Luck titty danced in his lap. He glanced at Buffy. She was deathly still, her pale skin sticky with fever where it wasn't coated in blood. Her legs were curled up, her arms braced protectively over her stomach. She was hanging on by her fingernails, seeking asylum in the eye of the storm, the tiny oasis in the center of her subconscious not being buffeted by gale force winds of agony. Her world would be shrunk down to a small, dark island inside her head where she could hide from it all. He knew that place. Been there a time or two. Usually, courtesy of Angelus. He could tell she was in real bad shape. It was only going to get worse if her Watcher didn't get his head out of his arse.

Giles hung up the phone, the thin ridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Spike wasn't sure how the conversation went, but he was pretty sure by the angry line of the man's shoulders Angel confirmed everything he said.

"Angel, can't be here until tomorrow night."

Spike felt the first pangs of worry reverberate through him. Would Buffy's Watcher really let her die, before he'd let Spike touch her?

"Rupert, your Slayer's gonna be dead by then."

"I know that, Spike."

"Well, then." He motioned to the couch impatiently.

"Take her to my room," Giles ordered with a resigned sigh.

The dark room smelled of camphor and sage. Spike didn't bother with the light as he placed Buffy crossways on the queen bed. He thought about putting towels down to protect the green and burgundy coverlet, but he admittedly got off on ruining anything that was Rupert's. Anything. He gaze went predatory as he examined the Slayer. Ruined was exactly what the Slayer was going to be after this night. Spike had been upfront and honest with ol' Rupes. This was a conditioning ritual. The minion essentially became a slave to the vampire. Spike had no doubts the Slayer had more than enough fortitude to withstand a full conditioning. She might never be under his command, but she sure as hell wouldn't be forgetting this night anytime soon either. It would be the unreachable bar for her every sexual experience in the future. Given his currant circumstances, he couldn't have planned this better. The lingering feelings of gratitude she would be endowed with would hopefully give him plenty of leeway in not getting staked for bad behavior in the future.

As soon as he placed her, she curled up like road kill. He tried to remove her tank top, but she was rigid with agony. Impatient, he ripped her blouse and her skirt off. The crypt-like silence was commuted by the loud sound of rending fabric as Giles walked in to the room.

"What are you doing?" her Watcher snarled.

"I can't take care of business with her togs on, now can I?" Spike heard the threat in the Watcher's voice, but it wasn't until he looked up he realized the danger he was in. Giles positioned himself in the corner of the shadowy room, a loaded crossbow pointed with lethal intensity at Spike's heart. He stilled over the Slayer, cocking his head to the side.

"Wha'cha doin' there, Rupert?"

"If you think I am leaving you alone to molest my slayer as you see fit, then you are more deluded than your histories indicate."

Spike carefully slid from the bed to unclasp Buffy's sandals with casual sensuality. There was no way he was going to preform with Rupert in the room. Besides the very accurate accusation that he was up to something, there was a squick factor to the whole scenario that even unnerved Spike. Buffy was like the old man's daughter, and what was about to happen wasn't going to be anything less than NC-17 rated. "Never been one to say no to an audience. Makes no never mind to me if you watch." He curled his tongue behind the edge of his teeth. "That's what you do, innit? Watch? Watch your Slayer as she dusts all those baddies, her lil' titties bouncin' 'neath her frock."

Giles took a step out of the shadows, his eyes flashing in the moonlight streaming from the window. "Shut your mouth, vampire."

Spike backed away as if contrite, his hands lifted in pacification. He shelved the sing-song quality of his voice in favor of no nonsense business.

"You know what's gonna 'appen here, yeah?"

The Watcher's lips pressed into a tight white line, and Spike knew Angel had explained it to him. Probably raged in his great poncy way about the unfairness of it all. Probably even tried to lay the blame at Spike's feet. Like it was all his idea. In all honestly, he _wished_ he had thought of it. _Soddin' ingenious, it was._

"Your innocent lil' slayer is goin' to cum over and over on my tongue, and somehow I don't think she's gonna want you seein' it." Spike cocked his head to the side, as if he just had an epiphany. "But maybe you do, yeah? Maybe you wanna see your lil' girl flushed and moanin'. You want some fodder for your nightly wank. Her in one of her lil' itty bitty frocks, sittin' on your lap, callin' you daddy."

Giles crossed the room, faster than he would have given the old man credit for. He could have dodged of course, but he didn't. The crunch of his nosebone under the butt of the crossbow was necessary to his plans. Spike collapsed on the floor, cupping his gushing nose. His icy blue eyes flashing upwards to take in the Watcher's snarl of hate and disgust.

In a cold voice that froze Spike's already unbeating heart Giles delivered a threat. "If you lay one untoward hand on Buffy, I'll cut out your tongue and personally use it myself to swathe her wounds. Do I make myself clear?"

"Chrystal, mate." Spike scowled at the man towering over him. That hadn't gone at all how he planned. The lily-white, book-learned Watcher was supposed to storm out of the room in in a quivering, snit of disgust. Looks like Lady Luck took a smoke break.

"Rest assured, Spike. If Buffy comes out of this anything less than a glowing picture of health, I will stake you spread eagle out in the early morning's light to burn." Apparently the Watcher had untold depths Spike didn't know about. It made Spike respect him a fraction. It made Spike think he might be a worthy kill. They faced off. Vampire and Watcher, natural born enemies, hankering for a kill. Buffy's tiny whimper was gun-shot loud in the silent room, dispersing the eddies of testosterone. Giles eyes flickered to his charge, then back to the vampire.

"Get to work," he ordered as he backed away into the shadowy corner.

"Aye, aye, mate," Spike spat. He rose with graceful fluidity, reminding the Watcher he was dealing with an experienced master, not a fledgling to be bullied. Grateful his nosebone was already mending, he wiped the blood from his face. Carefully, he positioned Buffy on her stomach so the lithe expanse of her back could be seen in the moonlight. Time to play nice. He didn't want to get dusted before he tasted some of that sweet slayer blood that was laid out ala Buffy in front of him. He climbed onto the bed, his predatory eyes tracking the Watcher as he planted his knees on either side of her hips. He placed his hands near her shoulders, fisting his fingers in the coverlet to stop himself from either stroking her or himself while he feasted. Her arousal was guaranteed. His was inevitable. Acting on it would definitely end with him being filter food.

He leaned closer, whispering into her hair. "Slayer." She remained unresponsive, her eyes still beneath the paper thinness of her lids. This was not a good thing. His gaze lingered on the loaded crossbow the Watcher held. "Slayer," he hissed. He was rewarded with a low moan. "I need you to natter on like ya do. Make sure there's no muddle in your noggin' while I work."

"Can't. Hurts," she gasped. Her pain was a tangible beast in the room that couldn't be easily slain. Spike moved to nuzzle the back of her neck in comfort, but quickly caught himself before the Watcher noticed.

"'S okay. I know it hurts, luv. Jus' need ya to tell me what you're feelin', yeah?"

"Hurts so bad."

Spike examined the wickedest gash on her back. There was a lot of blood. It washed her golden skin pale red. An inch wide stripe slanted down from her shoulder to wrap around her opposite hip. He would start there. Except for the narrowest tip of his tongue, no part of his body touched hers. A tiny little sip. Just a taste. The _ecstasy_ of it exploded in his mouth. Fuck, she was sweet. The clear poison was a cotton candy glaze mingled with the sharp, spicy tang of her blood. It was like liquid sunshine coursing through her veins. It took every ounce of his physical mastery not to vamp out. Watcher or no, he couldn't stop the deep, erotic groan that reverberated through his chest at his first taste. The unconscious, primal monster in him knew when the Watcher moved, the awareness of it the only thing stopping him from sinking his fangs in the delectable banquet set before him. That was a sure fire way to end up a layer of sprinkles over delicious Slayer Surprise. He extended his torso away from hers, all his weight supported by shaking arms. He hung his head, taking deep unneeded breaths to steady his raging instincts.

"Don't shoot, Watcher. Your precious Slayer's still safe." Spike didn't bother to check to see if Giles retreated. He wasn't dust. That was answer enough. He watched as the healing enzymes in his saliva, combined with her natural slayer abilities worked quickly to knit the shallowest edges of the wound together. There was a lot more work to be done, and he needed every ounce of his self-control to do it.

"Talk to me, slayer," he breathed onto her neck before he took another swipe at her wound. The initial shock of her taste faded, but the richness of her blood was still intense. He held himself still with predatory control, only allowing his tongue to sweep across her flesh. The sensory overload of touching her any other way would be too much. Her whimpers of pain gave way to sighs of pleasure as he dipped his tongue into the deepest trench of the gash.

"Don't stop. Please," she begged in a tiny, insubstantial voice. It made something unrecognizable clench in his chest.

"I'm not goin' to stop, kitten. Not ever." He wasn't sure if he could, even if sunlight were to suddenly burst through the window. The words whispered across her skin were unbidden, and the Watcher shifted his weight, the wooden butt of the crossbow cracking menacingly under his steely grip.

Buffy's eyes shot open, her blurry gaze trying to focus. "Giles?"

"I'm here, Buffy. You're safe."

"Giles, please," she whimpered.

Her watcher swiftly ducked down next to the bed so he was eye level with her. Spike fought back the territorial growl that rose up in his chest. He had no right to her. Not yet. She still belonged to the Watcher. Giles brushed Buffy's hair from her face with ease that made Spike jealous.

"It's alright, Buffy. I won't let anything happen to you."

A near imperceptible shudder ran through her body that only Spike detected. It was a shudder of pleasure. Of disgust. The wound on her back was nearly clean, the thinnest edges already knitting. Beneath him, her muscles were tensing, and he could feel the vibration of her thighs though they were inches from his. His little slayer was about to breach the first circle of her conditioning, and her Watcher was about to witness something he'll never be able to burn out of his brain for all the brandy in the free world.

The pain was receding under the onslaught of pleasure building inside her, but coherent thought was still difficult. Her distress ratcheted up as she realized Giles was in the room with them. Watching them. Watching her as she got off on Spike's tongue dipping in and out of her wounds. She wasn't clear on exactly what was happening, but she knew it was personal. Intimate. The only thing her pain-drenched brain could process was that Spike was taking the agony away. Lovely, wonderful Spike and his miraculous tongue. What he was doing was wrong and dirty on so many levels, but she didn't want him to stop. Couldn't have him stop. If he did, she was afraid she would fly off this tilt-a-whirl called life and end up floating in a sea of darkness and agony. Heat was building between her thighs, soaking her cotton panties and soon she would be doing more than moaning beneath Spike's tongue. She'd be writhing.

"Get out!" she snapped. Direct and desperate.

"Buffy?" Giles drew back, stunned at her vehemence.

Spike stopped. Lifting his head to peer over Buffy's shoulder at the watcher.

"Don't stop," she growled, her pain-darkened eyes flashing back at him. He lowered his mouth, his self-satisfied smirk ghosting over her skin. She shivered beneath him as he lapped along the edges of her cut. She closed her eyes to absorb the pleasure of it, before redirecting her gaze towards Giles. His expression was stricken and disgusted. Buffy wanted to bury her face in her arms and hide away in shame. She didn't want Giles to look at her like that. More importantly she didn't want that look to deepen into revulsion. And she really didn't want Giles to know what her 'O' face looked like. Lethargic and pain laden, she shifted until her fingers wrapped around Giles' arm just below the rolled cuff of his shirt. Her skin was so sensitive she could feel each individual hair under her fingertips. She needed him to leave. Now.

"Please, Giles. Go."

"Buffy, you aren't safe. You are too weak to protect yourself from Spike if he attempts to harm you."

"You can't. What he's doing is working. I can't have you here…I can't have you see," she choked. Spike's magic tongue took away the pain long enough for her to be able to think, but her mind was quickly becoming clouded with pleasure. "Please, we have to trust that Spike won't hurt me."

"We can't ever trust him, Buffy. He could do something terrible. He could…" _Turn you_ was left unspoken between them. She tightened her grip on his wrist. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only underscored her weakness.

"It takes two to tango, right? He can't turn me unless I drink. I won't do that. Not ever. If you can't trust him, then trust me." The pressure was beginning to build, pressing insistently at the base of her belly, her clit pulsing to the rhythm of the ceaseless swipes of Spike's tongue. "Get out. Get out now," she ground out with as much force as she could.

Her words were filled with such desperate panic that Giles couldn't help, but be spurred on by them. As much as he worried for her safety there were some things he never, ever wanted to see, despite Spike's outlandish accusations. At the threshold of his bedroom he glanced back. The vampire hunched over Buffy watched him go with gleeful victory glittering in his dark eyes as he lapped up Slayer blood. Giles closed the door, griping his belly to try and curb the slick twist of despair in his gut.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. Everything is owned by Joss Whedon and all his affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.

Placed between Something Blue and Hush.

Warning: Explicit sexual content and blood play. But it's Spike so you should have saw that coming. Also there may be some flowery malarkey towards the end, but that's cause I'm an unrepentant romantic at heart.

A/N: The set up is pretty trite. But I serve up trite family style and hand out big honkin' spoons.

**Sweet Agony**

Part Two

The door had barely clicked shut when she began to writhe beneath him. He clamped down, caging her to the bed with his body. He sealed his mouth over her wound, sucking the sweet candied blood into his mouth in a fiery gush.

"Oh, God. Spike. Don't stop. So good."

She bucked her hips into his, grinding her ass against the large bulge in his jeans. His first instinct was to ram forward to meet her, but the stickiness of her blood clumping his shirt reminded him how grievously wounded she was. He placed a hand on her uninjured hip and pressed her down into the bed, trying to keep her from hurting herself too badly.

He kept his lips sealed over her wound in a sucking kiss as the last waves of her pleasure washed over her. When she finally stilled beneath him, her last quivering gasp silenced, he forced himself to unclamp his hand and lips from her. He reared back on his knees, her prone body still trapped between his thighs. His eyes squeezed shut, his hands knotted to white-knuckled fists at his sides, as he fought the demon for control. One wrong twitch and he was going to spew in his jeans. She was so delicious. So utterly perfect in everyway. He wanted to devour her until everything she was thundered inside him like a summer rainstorm.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him from over the pale curve of her shoulder. He couldn't remember seeing anything more beautiful in his entire unlife. Her pupils were blown wide with the pleasure they shared, while the thin band of hazel was bruised in agony. She was exquisite and about to be all his. He reached behind his head, fisting the material of his black t-shirt so he could whip it over his head in one smooth action. His pale sculptured torso gleamed in the moonlight. Her eyes widened, but she didn't look away, coaxing a knowing smirk to his lips. He flattened his hand on his collarbone, dragging it slowly down to the waistband of his jeans. Her eyes followed as if hypnotized, from the line of his powerful shoulders, across his well-developed chest and down his delineated abs. Her perusal stopped at the fly of his jeans where his long fingers tapped tauntingly. He knew the darkness of his jeans and the low light made it impossible for her to see the bulge, but she knew it was there, and her knowing only made him harder. The button of his jeans came undone with a careless flick of his thumb and forefinger.

He saw her distress in the curve of her lower lip, before she hid her face away in the crook of her arm. It was the only thing that saved her from a reprimand. She should never look away from him. He shook the wayward thought away, reminding himself that she was the Slayer not a minion. The conditioning wouldn't be as effective as it would be on a mere human. Reprimanding her would get him dusted if he wasn't careful. His power over her would be in the gratitude she would feel towards him, not in asserting authority he couldn't enforce.

She shuddered as another wave of pain hit her. The reprieve after breaching the first circle of conditioning was the shortest she would have this night. The waves of agony would build again, and if left unchecked they would crest as they had before.

"'S alright, baby. The Big Bad's goin' make it all better." He crouched over her, still careful to keep distance between them. His cock pressed painfully against the zipper of his jeans, but he didn't trust himself to undo his pants entirely. Impatience had ever been his downfall. He wouldn't let it ruin this moment. The largest, most painful gash in her back was cleansed, but other smaller ones would be burning with sweet agony soon enough. He lapped at her flesh, reveling in the shivers of her body beneath him. He could feast on her all night, but he had a plan. There would be no distractions this time, no matter how delectable they were.

"Say sumthin'," he commanded.

"Why?" Her voice was harsh, like she had been slamming whiskey shots all night.

Spike hummed in response against her skin. "Like I said, afore. Need to make sure the poison hasn't gone straight to your brain."

"No. Why are you doing this?"

"You mean, 'sides the obvious, luv?" He swabbed a small cut with a long, languorous lick that she could feel in her clit. She jerked, then stilled, as if by barely breathing she could control what she felt.

"It's hurting again," she hissed. "Poison?" Buffy was confused. She knew she was with Spike. She knew he was the only one keeping the pain at bay. Obviously, she'd been poisoned somehow, but why didn't Giles cure her? Snatches of disembodied conversation between Giles and Spike, danced around her consciousness, but it was hard to put the entire story together when so many pieces were missing. How was it that she was here with Spike?

He feasted on particularly deep wound as he thought about how to answer her. As the night progressed her cognation would become sharper, and that's when the real training began. It was imperative that she associated not only physical pleasure, but pleasurable emotions and memories with him. Forcing her to talk now, only served to set a precedent for later when he started asking more intimate questions. Explaining to her now the circumstances of the poison would be the most ideal, since her mind was still hazy, and she was less likely to protest his methods.

"There's some rot in your blood makin' you hurt. 'm cleanin' it out for you, luv, but these things go in cycles."

Her arms shielded her face, but he could see her small hands fisting into the coverlet. Whether it was from pain or pleasure couldn't be deciphered. At this stage it was more than likely a discomforting mixture of both.

"Cycles?" she gasped into the bed. He grinned, knowing she wasn't going to like this part of the explanation. He lowered his hips, ghosting his thighs against the backsides of hers.

"Mmmhmm." He hummed low and sultry against her skin. "Every time you cum on my tongue, that's a cycle. After each cycle the pain lessens an' the reprieve between intervals increases. 'Course if you walk away before breachin' all the levels, it begins all over. The pain rampin' up 'til it kills you." She whimpered beneath him. A mixture of pain, pleasure and powerlessness. It was a glorious concoction.

"How many?" Her voice cracked with strain.

"Cycles?" She shuttered in response, and he thought something in his groin might burst. He gripped the underside of her elbow, sliding it further up, so he could lave his tongue over a thin slash that slid from her back to the side of her pillowed breast. "As many as it takes," he whispered against her sensitive skin, lapping up her shivers.

"Can't we just wash it out?" she whined. Logical Buffy knew there had to be another way than this. This was wrong on so many levels that right might never be found again.

"Nah, only makes the pain worse." He nuzzled the back of her head, inhaling her scent. "You don't want it to be worse, do ya? Burn you inside out?" He paused a beat, breathing over her flesh, but not tasting. "Should I nip out for a smoke, then?"

"No!" She bucked in panic. He chuckled, holding her down.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, kitten. I promise."

"Please, Spike. I'm so close."

The small wounds on her back were mostly cleaned, but she still had numerous lashes on her shoulders and arms. He could feel the tension rolling through her tight little body, coiling like a spring. He latched his lips on a deep wound on her ribs, balancing his weight on one arm as his other hand dipped between her thighs. She clamped her legs together in protest, trapping his long fingers at the seam outside her panties.

"Come on, baby. Cum for me," he whispered over her ribs, as he slicked his mouth down the wound to where it bled clear candy poison. He rocked his hand against her, sucking hard.

"Spi-ike!" Her thighs loosened and his fingers were able to find her swollen clit. He kept his fingers outside her damp panties as he circled it in a practiced caress that had her bucking and moaning as her climax rushed through her body. He rode the waves of her pleasure, lost in the ecstasy that was her. Her taste, her skin, the way she moaned just for him. Every little detail that was only Buffy. He was so completely lost in her, that he didn't feel the shift in her body, but he felt her elbow slamming into his cheekbone. He fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor.

"You bloody bitch! What was that for?"

She moved slowly, still riding the high of her climax and nowhere near being full strength. Not even half strength. Hell to be honest, she was weak-kitten Buffy at the moment. She plucked up a pillow, tucking it in front of her as she turned to stare down at him from where she lay on the bed.

"I feel better now," she rasped.

He stared at her for long moments. She was poised on the bed, a feather pillow her only barrier against him. She was the Slayer. She was used to being in control of her body. It was natural for her to resist this, to resist him, through it didn't make him any less angry. He didn't want her to see how furious he was though. He wanted her to feel like she was in control. Make her let her guard down.

"M' job's all done then, pet?" He gingerly lifted himself into a comfortable leather armchair beside the bed. Its close proximity to the closet, suggested that Rupert sat in the same chair every morning to put his loafers on. As he spoke, she lost the struggle to rest her weight on her elbow, too weakened by poison and blood loss. She lay in half circle facing him, her pillow chastely covering her breasts and tucked between her legs.

"Yeah. I could probably hold out for Angel now."

_Heard that part of the conversation, did she? _Yeh, she'd like that_. _The great poof slobbering all over her. Disgusting, that was. He absently patted his pockets for his cigs, before remembering he left them in his duster downstairs. Damn, he needed a post-coital smoke. Especially since the scent of camphor in the room had given way to blood and sex.

"Sure. You're a tough lil' bint. Give it a go."

He toed his boots off, before propping his bare feet on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed. He leaned back, taking great pleasure in hooking his thumb into his pants, using the weight of it to split open his zipper just a little more. He grinned, noting her eyes glued to his long fingers that were curled around his prominent bulge. _Slattern_. He trilled his fingers along his fly and her eyes immediately darted up to his. Her brow creased and he had to check his sigh. _Here we go._

"Why _are _you here, Spike? Obviousness, aside.

He shrugged. A lazy cat waiting for its prey. "Your dial-a-vamp boyfriend couldn't make it."

"Dial-a-vamp?"

"Yeh. 1-800-I-can't-solve-my-problems-without-you. Don't you go runnin' to him every time you need help?"

"I do not! And he's not my boyfriend." He merely raised his scar brow at her tardiness in denying Angel's boyfriend status. "He's not, and I don't!" she fumed. Her hands fisted on the pillow she held, and for a moment he thought she was going to throw it at him. He leered and slumped a little lower in his seat so he could get a prime view. She pulled it tighter, looking away to a darkened corner. "I'm the Slayer. I fight my own battles. Been doing it for a while now."

Her despondent tone made him uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat. His raging hard on wasn't in danger of going away anytime soon, making sitting in tight jeans one of his least favorite things to do. He needed to put them back on course. He needed Buffy back in his mouth.

"So you say," he purred agreeably. "Peaches ain't your vamptoy, no more. Good thing with that whole soul losin' and what not." He cocked his head as if a particularly wondrous thought just struck him. "Do you suppose bringin' you off over an' over will give him the big happy?" He rubbed his finger over his lips, pretending to be lost in thought. "No, I suppose not. Big wanker always was selfish. Not jus' satisfied with seein' his woman looked after. He's gotta have it himself."

"Yeah."

Shocked at the soft-spoken agreement, he glanced back at the bed. Buffy was arched around her pillow like it was a life raft in a sea of trouble. Her thighs were clamped down on one end, and her arms wrapped around the other. Her chin was tucked into her chest, making her voice sound more distant than it was. Even so, he didn't think he was meant to hear that. It must have just slipped out. Poor bint. However, the seeds of doubt were sown, and her dejection was the opening he was looking for.

"What's the matter, pet? Don't like my services?" He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. Her dark eyes tracked his movement without her usual flicker of disgust. "'ave Rupert run down to the local gravestone to pick up a spot of willin' vamp tongue, shall I?" She flashed him a look of pure aggravation that made him shiver.

"You never did answer me?" She intoned, all fire beneath a veneer of ice. Could freeze a corpse dead then set it on fire with a look, she could.

"Was'at?"

"Why are you doing this, besides the obvious?"

She was glaring at him with dark eyes that weren't going to back down until she had an answer that satisfied her. Fuck, she was beautiful. She never broke. Never. He dropped his feet, and slowly leaned forward in his chair resting his elbows on his knees so they were at even height.

"Never underestimate the obvious. I'm a bloke, and you're a sweet chit who tastes like sunshine in a bottle. All I wanna do is eat you up, kitten." She buried her face further into her pillow and he chuckled. Crises averted, he leaned back in his chair, a study of practiced bad boy nonchalance.

"Why can't we just wash it out? Or maybe run down to the drugstore and get some aspirin? Or maybe some Oxi." She warmed to the idea. "Something to knock me on my ass until next week." Her voice was pitched with desperation, and he noticed how she trembled slightly. The pain was starting build again. Stubborn bint _was_ going to try and tough it out.

"Yah, 'cause Oxi's available at every local Five and Dime."

She glared at him from over her pillow, her bangs plastered with sweat to her brow. He suppressed the urge to sigh. She was only making it worse.

"Oh. I'm sure you know someone, Spike."

"Oi! I never touch the stuff." He rubbed his hand down his chiseled chest. If he had been human only a healthy diet and a strict work out regiment could have achieved such perfection. Body's a temple and all that. "That stuff will kill ya."

She scoffed. "I don't think you have to worry. Cigarettes and booze will be your downfall."

"Damn straight," he agreed with relish. "Anyways, it doesn't work thataway. Vamp poison; vamp cure."

"Of course," she muttered, seemingly lost in her thoughts. She cut through the cemetery on her way to meet Riley, who probably thought she was a complete flake now for not showing up at the Bronze. Then she ran into Vampzilla, the dominatrix vamp on kitty steroids. The ho ruined her evening and possibly her potential, budding relationship.

"I knew that bitch was trouble with a side of FU."

Spike figured she was talking about the vamp who did this to her. Of course, his girl used her patent; dust first, ask later method she used for all her fights. Good thing, too! Or he wouldn't be sitting here with a naked Buffy. She did a little shimmy that could have been construed as erotic, if he didn't know that it was driven by pain. If he let this go any further, they'd lose any ground they gained.

He stood up, smirking a little when he saw the flash of fear on her face born from feeling like trapped prey. She quickly hid it away as he leaned over her, pressing his advantage while he could. "Look you stubborn lil' bint. Angel's not gonna be here anytime soon, and given the last time you got anywhere near post-coital with him, I'd think you wouldn't want him to be. So unless you really do want me to tell the Watcher to scare you up another vamp to slobber on you, I'm gonna need to clean that poison out afore you pop."

She rolled slightly to her back to see him better as he towered over her, using the pillow as a fluffy shield to protect her precious soddin' virtue. Her gold hair was haloed around her head, gleaming in the pool of moonlight she lounged in. She stared up at him with wide eyes that were filled with pain, fear and a nasty dose of anticipation that made them both shiver, abet for different reasons. Her chin dipped ever so slightly, and Spike had to curb the urge to growl in victory. She was a skittish little thing, and he didn't want to startle her into snortin' and kickin' like a mule.

He jerked his chin, indicating she should roll over. She carried her pillow with her, dragging it away at the last moment so she could lay prone on her stomach. He took up the same position as earlier, only this time he was sure to brush his bare chest over her back as he settled himself higher up her body to reach her injured shoulders and arms. He trailed his fingertips up the sensitive undersides of her arms, pushing at her elbows, until they curled around her head, and her cheek lay flat on the coverlet. He leaned around to see her face, but she quickly turned her head away with the disdain of a queen. Spike glared at the mass of blond hair tickling his nose. He knew what she was doing. If she didn't have to acknowledge it was him who was making her knickers wet with every swipe of his tongue—that it was him starving off the agony by bringing her off—then she could fool herself into believing it was her great ponce of an ex or even her newest toy she had been going on about lately. No matter. He was still training her. Conditioning her to _his_ tongue, _his_ mastery. He had watched Darla enough times to know how to pull off the soft touch of seduction.

He lapped at a wound on her shoulder, easing the pain molding her muscles into hard, unmovable slabs of marble. Even stiff with pain she was beautiful and desirable, but he knew she would be gorgeous, lush and soft with pleasure. He could tell by the minute relaxation of her body the pain was ebbing, but the pleasure hadn't yet started to build. He leaned close, nuzzling the back of her neck while he spoke.

"Still need you to talk to me, luv."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Luv?"

"It isn't true."

"Jus' and endearment, pet."

"We aren't endearment kinda people. And don't call me pet."

"Speak for yourself. I've decades of practice with 'em. Pet, luv, princess." He laved his tongue over her wounds after every word, speaking slow and steady with a mesmerist's intonation. He was lulling her with his words. His voice. His breath that was cool on her heated skin. "It's all about finding the one that fits. I know. How about kitten?" He delved his fingers between her thighs, cupping her pussy on the outside of her panties. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty," he whispered into her ear. She clamped her thighs together, and bucked him away. Finally, she deigned to look at him, a hot glare that could boil toads.

He smiled and shrugged. "What? Too soon?"

Her pink lips parted in a snarling grimace that nearly had him creaming in his jeans. God, if only she knew how fucking gorgeous she was. He slid his hand away from her quim, and planted it on her hip despite the renewed hatred in her gaze. He lapped at the candy poison, and her eyelashes fluttered, cooling the fire inside her. She turned away so she didn't have to see him, but there was no forgetting the weight of Spike's possessiveness on her hip.

"Me mates, are always goin' on about how college girls jus' don't know when to shut up. Yet, here you are."

"You don't have mates, Spike."

"Say's you."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes before settling again. "What do you want me to say?" She asked with resignation.

Spike shrugged as if it made no never mind to him, but that couldn't be further from the truth. He needed her to dwell on the things that made her happy. Things she would later associate with him.

"Start with sumthin' simple. How about the best day of your life?" Spike already knew his best day would be when he finally killed the slayer and her little band of scoobies. Though in all honesty, until that happened, this night was topping the charts at number one, and that included when his dark goddess came into his life and made him into something wonderful.

Buffy was taken aback by the question. She searched through a plethora of memories, searching for anything she could call best. All she found was a kaleidoscope of bad days with an intermingling of some good. Even before being Called her life had been filled with fear and uncertainty. Her parents fought constantly, their arguments secretive at first, as if Buffy couldn't hear the furious whispering in their bedroom, until they crescendoed into all out brawls in the days before her father left.

It was all laid out before her. Her parents fighting, her father leaving, being Called, the ostracism by her peers for her weird behavior, the disappointment in her mother's eyes, the endless nights of fighting, Angel, Angelus, Ms. Calendar, the disappointment in Giles eyes, Angel leaving, Parker's lies, Spike's taunts, the wedding she never was going to have. It was all just one long stream of bad days.

Spike smelt the saltiness of her tears, before heard them. He shifted to the side just as a tear slid from the inner corner of her eye, over the narrow ridge of her nose to drip onto the green and burgundy coverlet. "No best days." She squeezed her eyes shut, and more tears leaked out. "Just day after day of bad ones. Never ending, on going, badness."

Spike's demon watched with a surge of triumph. This was it. The beginning of the end. The death wish all slayers carried inside them started as a fledgling thought, but as the harshness of their lives eroded their purpose, darkening their pristine souls, the thought became a yearning. A desire blooming and rotting within their hearts. In a year, maybe two, she'd be ripe, and he would be there to do the plucking. A third slayer to notch on his belt as he swaggered by the awed demon masses. They would crown him a king. The Big Bad, Slayer of Slayers.

She shuddered beneath him. Not in pleasure, but in pain. Her hand fisted in the blankets.

"Spike," she pleaded and he found himself addicted to the sound of his own name. His name sounded like a death cry. A gasp then a crunch. Somehow she made it sound like life. A plea then salvation.

He dipped down and laved a narrow wound on her forearm with one long, steady stroke. Her breath caught and she arched into him, her buttocks bucking his thighs, urging him to lean closer. Her back and shoulders were hot against his cool chest. He could still smell her tears and the man in him wanted to wipe them away. He looped his long fingers around her wrist, tucking her arm under as he drew her narrow back into his wider chest in unspoken comfort.

Buffy wanted to weasel away from his embrace, but she couldn't find the will. A few weeks ago the idea of Spike at her back would have sent her reaching for the nearest stake. Him breathing at her nape would have had her praying for either deliverance or a quick death. But since their faux engagement, she couldn't quite dredge up the fear being held down by William the Bloody should invoke. She had seen a different side of Spike, a side she would have never imagined. She'd shared something with him she didn't dare give voice to, a type of intimacy having nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with letting someone inside the wall surrounding her heart. She hated him for that. For being inside her defenses without even realizing he was there, then leaving her bereft and cold with a memory of something so sweet it hurt, even if it was only a lie.

"No best days, then. How about a good memory? Jus' one. One where you got a favorite dolly for Christmas or some such rot."

Buffy snorted. He wanted precious things from her. She could sense that, but didn't know why. This was another thing that she hated about the Thy Will Be Done spell. The fact she wanted to share these precious things with him, wanted to bestow upon Spike little bits of knowledge that when eventually put together would form the mosaic that was her.

"I never played with dollies." She tried to keep her voice even, but she could hear undertones of need as he continued to taste her with his wicked tongue.

"Action figures?" He deepened his voice, sounding ridiculously hollow as if he was trying to imitate the moviefone voice.

"Whatever." She paused a beat. "My little ponies. Friendship is magic, you know." Buffy thought of Willow as they curled up on their respective beds, facing each other, eating ice cream and sharing secrets. Four years of friendship and there were still secrets to be shared. _Will I share this one?_ This shameful, sexy, kinda sweet in a dirty sort of way, secret. Buffy didn't think so. This night will be tucked away with her handful of other untold secrets: her not killing Angelus when she had the chance, the miniscule, split second of relief she felt when she did kill him. What she felt when Spike was on his knees, a ridiculous skull ring in his hand. Feelings that didn't go away even with the magic did.

"You have real depth, Summers. Getting warm tinglies over cartoon ponies that shoot rainbows out their arses. Will I find a cutie mark when I finally pull your knickers off?"

Buffy couldn't hone in on a single emotions fast enough, they kept popping up with every word he spoke. Shame, disappointment, anger, indignant outrage. "My knickers will be staying right where they are, thank you very much." Buffy was proud of the disdain she was able to infuse into her words, even when it felt like he was taking her apart piece by piece with every lap of his tongue. He just chuffed against her shoulder like a great cat and licked her heady again. The swirl of pleasure couldn't quite banish her disappointment.

Although she hid it well, it was moments like these that she felt childish and insignificant. If Spike thought she lacked depth, what did Angel think? They had lived lifetimes, seen the world and its multitudes several times over, while she was just a girl who hadn't been any further than Disneyland. All she knew of the world was where it ended-in the dark where all the bodies were hidden. She attempted to project superiority, but most of the time she knew she was inferior. If she wasn't the Slayer then she would be nothing. Neither of them would have even stopped to look twice at her, unless it was to drain her as a passing snack. Yet, it was that normalcy that she chased with such fervor. The idea of being a normal girl, not the slayer. Someone who would be overlooked in a crowd. Someone who was insubstantial, unremarkable, and would be blessed with a future and long life.

"The dress."

"What?" Spike sounded hazy, and she wondered if it was possible for a vampire to get drunk off blood.

"You asked for a good memory. The most recent was the dress."

"What dress?"

"When we were—you know." She fidgeted. Her feelings were mixed. On the one hand she had felt so much happiness it had been nearly impossible to contain. On the other hand it was all a spell induced lie. Did that mean it wasn't a real memory?

"Engaged," Spike offered.

"Bespelled," she disputed. She could feel him shrug behind her. She could feel every hard line of his body though he wasn't touching her. He gave off no heat to define his presence, but somehow she intuitively knew where she ended and he began. A slayer's instincts she insisted. A woman's sensitivity she dissented.

"What about it?"

"It's a good memory. I mean, not you per se."

"Thanks ever so, slayer."

She snorted. "Hello. Evil vampire. Not picket fence material." She wiggled beneath him, hoping he'd get the hint to brush more of his cool skin against her heated body. The bastard leaned closer, but didn't quite touch her. She was certain he knew what she wanted, but enjoyed torturing her anyhow.

"'Specially with you as a wife. Woulda got a bit of picket fence shoved in my chest the first time I dinna take out the trash."

"You should be so lucky to have me as a wife."

_Yah, probably._ Spike quashed the stray thought with ruthlessness. It was those humanesque thoughts, which usually got him into trouble. That's why Dru left him. It's why he kept coming back to this hellhole. He was a sentimental arsehole.

"But the engagement stuff. The invitations, cake and songs. And the dress in the window, all white and lacy."

"Figures you would go all 'White Wedding', all caught up in the knick knackery of it all."

"Exactly how well did you know Billy Idol?" she asked in exasperation. The pain had all but receded, and now pleasure was swimming at the surface like a Great White honing in for the kill. She wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. There was something unsettling about coming undone in front of a man who loved her for only one day before remembering their mutual hate. Talking allowed her to concentrate on something other than the building pressure at the bottom of her belly. It allowed her to deflect her mind, until it was too late to stop it from rushing over her.

"Who'dya think wrote the lyrics to 'Cradle of Love,' baby?"

"Figures. You're skeezy like that."

"Oi! 's a bloody love song."

"Yah. For pedophiles."

"'m over a hundred and twenty years old," he murmured and she could feel his smile against his skin. It took a moment for his words to sink in.

"Ewww. Spike!"

He chuckled. The sound was dark and thick like chocolate covered sin. "You're all babes in the wood to me, slayer."

She buried her face in the blanket, deciding this wasn't the best course of the conversation. Squicky lyrics aside, rocking the cradle of love was sounding pretty tempting right about now. Almost of their own accord her hips canted back, brushing against the bulge of his cock. His jeans were course against her sensitive skin and she shuddered. He leaned forward, pressing against her ass as he sucked on her shoulder. She felt the world tilt and she fought to hang on, to fight and not give in.

"Besides, that wasn't it at all," she stuttered into the blanket, trying to steer the conversation back to it's origin.

Spike lifted his head, genuinely interested. "What then?"

"It was the planning. The expectation of you and me being someplace, somewhere at a certain time. It was the rubber stamp approval, saying 'yes, its okay to have a real life'. Planning a wedding meant planning a future where I wasn't going to potentially die the next day, week or month. It was about living for a future where I loved someone and was loved in return. It was something normal. Something better."

Buffy hid her face, mortally embarrassed she had shared something so intimate. What could Spike possibly say to that? What would she want him to say? Willow's Thy Will Be Done spell had done more than put her in a compromising position with Spike. It had put her in a compromising position with herself. It forced her to contemplate her future in a way she never truly committed to before. Sure, she was all with off-handed quips about her expiration date, but it wasn't something truly accepted. She starved it off with friendships, and boyfriends, dancing at the bronze, and late night movie marathons. She immersed herself in normal to mystify reality, but Willow's spell pulled the veil away, leaving her with the naked truth. She was going to die young and beautiful just like Ford had wanted all those years ago. Except it wasn't something she wanted. She wanted to live. Not forever. Forever meant losing her soul. But she wanted to live longer than her expiration date. A lot longer.

Spike contemplated the girl beneath him as he cleansed her wounds. On a physical level he was aware of her body, probably more acutely than she was. Her heart was thudding hard and heavy in her chest. Her blood was a rush in her veins, her muscles quivered with butterfly delicacy. Unconsciously, she was rocking against him, seeking satiation for the pleasure building inside of her. Her breaths were coming in pants, dotting her words with tiny gasps. She spoke in a rush, as if she knew she had to get the words out before everything came crashing down.

However, the crashing may be more emotional than physical. The conditioning was supposed to invoke pleasure, both in body and mind, but his little slayer didn't work like that. Even the things that gave her pleasure where tainted with a core of darkness. Not the kind of darkness he lived in. His darkness was at the surface. Easily accessed in a crunch of cartilage and an elongation of teeth. His ran rampant, bathing in blood. But the slayer. Her darkness was tightly wrapped up beneath layers and layers of so much rotting mulch, which was her life, the fear of it all ending in oblivion seeded away in her soul. There was no comforting that. No curing it. No laving it away with his tongue. There was only confronting it.

"If you're so soddin' sure you aren't goin'ta have a future, why you goin' to uni?" She didn't answer, but it didn't take him long to suss it out. The way her body stiffened beneath him, how she covered her eyes with her hand, spoke of shame, and in his experience shame came from two places. Religion and family. "Ah, for them, then."

She hunched beneath him, her muscles tense with fear, quivering with want. She was exposed and vulnerable in a way that went deeper than her nudity. She didn't want to share these things with him, but there was something innately comforting about it. These secrets didn't matter to him. He wouldn't judge her for them as her friends or family would. There was a type of freedom in unburdening yourself to the enemy. He would take the secrets to the grave, whether that grave be hers or his.

"My mother still thinks there's a husband and children in my future. That I will grow to a ripe old age," she paused, contemplating. "Angel left me so I could have a chance at normal."

"He left you 'cause he couldn't have you." Spike sucked the wound at her wrist like it was a lemon after a tequila shot. Pain burned through her veins and she whimpered. He cringed as his chip sparked. Immediately, he soothed her with his mouth, seeking forgiveness for his slight with the narrow tip of his tongue.

"Maybe. I've never really understood. I mean on a logical level I get it, but-" Her voice ended sadly, snuffed out in the half darkness.

"Love isn't logical. It's passion and craziness. It's blood."

Spike's words had an eerie echo of her own. She told Willow that she thought love and violence were somehow connected. That there had to be passion in a relationship or the spark would burn out. After the Thy Will Be Done spell she claimed to have changed her mind, but it wasn't completely true. Passion was life. Blood was life. She still believed it in her heart, especially when the blood began to roar in her ears, and the age old calls of want and need soaked her panties.

"My friends started planning their futures. Xander to the army, Willow to college, and I didn't want to be left behind. I wanted to fit in."

"Slayer, if you spend all your time trying to fit into everyone else's lives you'll never have one of your own."

"Maybe, but my life has no future. If I allowed myself to be left behind I would die at a standstill. Besides, it's better than being alone."

Spike couldn't argue logic like that. He wouldn't be in this bleedin' mess if he hadn't been alone. He would have been running free with all the other lions, tigers and bears, not participating in Dorothy's catch, severely fuck with, and release program. This conversation wasn't going as it should. This was plunging deeper than some superficial sexual conditioning. Intimacies were being exchanged that he was less than comfortable with. Better to end the conversation now. She was close. All she needed was a little push. He scooped his hand under her breast, tweaking her pearled nipple between his fingers. He latched his lips on the last remaining wound on her arm, thrusting his cock between the cleft of her ass cheeks. She rocked back onto him, moaning and writhing.

Her mind was a whirlwind, spinning and twisting around a central thought she couldn't seem to purge regardless of how the pleasure tried to swamp it. Spike felt so hard and cool against her back. His long length covering hers, a bulwark against the world, shielding her frailties. His jeans scraped against the raw wounds on her hips and she whimpered in discontent, but couldn't stop arching back to meet his thrusts. His fingers pinched her nipple and heat shot to her clit. She wanted to give over to the pleasure, but her thoughts intruded, begging to be purged from her mind.

"I just want to be normal," she gasped, tears dripping onto the coverlet. "I just want things to be better."

"Shss. The Big Bad's here now. Gonna make it all better for you, luv."

She pressed her face into the coverlet as she came. Her tears were hot and wet, soaking the blanket beneath her. He didn't understand. How could he? How could he understand that all she wanted was what she was promised as a little girl? A family, a future. A better life than the one she was living.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. Everything is owned by Joss Whedon and all his affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.

Placed between Something Blue and Hush.

Warning: Explicit sexual content and blood play. But it's Spike so you should have saw that coming. Also there may be some flowery malarkey towards the end, but that's 'cause I'm an unrepentant romantic at heart.

A/N: The set up is pretty trite. But I serve up trite family style and hand out big honkin' spoons.

**Sweet Agony**

Part Three

As soon as she was done writhing beneath him he bolted off her. He stood beside the bed, staring down at her, his chest heaving. If he could sweat he would be coated from the tips of his hair to the soles of his feet. He wasn't sure how much more he could take before he ripped off her knickers, undid his jeans, and slid his cock into her soft, wet heat. The intensity of the night was starting to wear on him. He'd never been this immersed in sex. In _Intimacy _with a capital I. She was sharing parts of her she had no right to do. He wanted to claim the blood and sex parts, but not the ones fitting her together into a fully realized person. He didn't want to _know_ her, he just wanted to _shag _her. He rubbed his hand down his face, trying to scrub out his humanity. He could smell her tears, and it bothered him. Worse, it bothered him that they bothered him. He was all kinds of bothered.

He dropped to his knees, his chin resting on the edge of the bed. Her ankles were on either side of his ears and he had a prime view of her nearly translucent panties. She was wet and dark between her legs, a siren call of sex and wild abandonment. He wrapped his cool hand around the arch of her foot, controlling her knee-jerk reaction to kick him in the face. After breaching another cycle, her body would be free from pain for at least a few minutes, but he didn't want to stop tasting her. Couldn't stop.

He didn't want her to speak either. He didn't want to hear any more secret desires. Desires which called to his own clandestine emotions. Her dreams closely aligned with his yearnings for love, marriage and family. A sense of belonging. Once those ideals had been the cornerstones of his identity. William's identity. Cecily herself hadn't been important as much as what she represented, a wife, a companion, a lover. A bastion from the world he couldn't seem to fit into. She would have been a future where he loved and was loved. Those were things he yearned for. Things denied to him by Angelus' long-standing, irrevocable claim on Dru. Useless soddin' dreams of a poncy poet. He needed to focus on his desires now. He wanted to have claim over this Slayer. To have her blood call for him. To have her thoughts turn to him when she so much as got a twitch in her clit. Guaranteeing those things meant having her speak.

"Tell me sumthin' mundane, slayer." Spike pulled her leg straight and swathed his tongue along a shallow wound on her ankle. She twitched and he knew he had found a tickle spot. He laved it again, a smile stretching his lips.

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. He blamed public school. "Normal."

The moment stretched. Surely, she had something normal in her life to natter on about. The way her and the witch constantly chattered you'd think the world spun on it's axis only to hear them speak.

"Like what?" she finally asked in a small, uncertain voice.

He shrugged. The backs of her calves and thighs were pretty cut up, but the wounds were shallow. She had bourn the brunt of her beating on her back and arms. He wondered how injured she was in the front. He hadn't seen much when she was curled up on the couch or when he deposited her on the bed. "Dunno. Tell me about classes."

"Oh, well. I'm taking psych, early Brit lit, world history and stats."

"Sounds mind numbing, kitten."

"Yah. Stats makes my eyes cross, but if I do good I won't have to take any other math classes, unless I choose to go into sciences."

"You have an idea of what you wantin' a degree in?"

"No." Buffy stretched, curling her toes. Spike was keeping her pleasure at a pleasant hum, the pain only a flicker along her peripheral. For a moment she could imagine herself sunbathing on a beach somewhere, far from the heaviness of her life. It was pleasant to take a break from their previously substantial conversation, and 'natter on' as Spike liked to say, about unimportant things. School was definitely one of those unimportant things. She doubted she would live to graduate. It was just something to pass the time before she died. "I'm just seeing if something catches my interest."

His tongue tickled the back of her knee and she giggled. He perked at the sound, and almost against his volition, his fingertips ticked her other knee. She jerked beneath him and giggled again.

"Spike, stop it!"

"Who knew the Slayer was ticklish," he murmured against her thigh. She tensed and he backed off, starting at her other ankle.

"I'm not ticklish," she protested, a laugh caught in her voice.

"Mmmhmm," he hummed against her anklebone and she jerked her foot away. He grabbed it and yanked it back, fastening his lips over the slight protrusion. She gasped, trying to kick herself free, but she was no match for him in her weakened condition.

"Stop!" she demanded. He licked the back of her other knee, holding her down as she squirmed.

"Admit you're ticklish." Spike couldn't stop the small flicker of delight stirring his insides. Vampires weren't ticklish. At least Dru wasn't. Spike's brow creased. There had never been joy in their unions. Sure, there had been laughter. The dark, malicious kind of laughter that comes with a particularly vicious kill. Sex had been rapturous, depraved, exciting and pleasurable. It had even been fun in it's own hedonistic way, but it had never been joyous.

"What?" she gasped out, still writhing.

"Admit it and I'll stop," he teased. Buffy's laughter was like drops of sunlight on his skin. A hint of warmth, a dollop of pleasure, but without the searing agony of the burn. Every time it tinkled over his skin, his stomach tightened waiting for pain that never came. It's warmth washed over him, lingering and pleasant. If he wasn't careful, he could become addicted.

She pouted beneath him, seriously giving thought to telling him to sod off, as he would say. Except his tongue was now doing this swirling thing right in the crease of her knee that was making her shake with laughter.

"Okay! I'm ticklish, darn it."

"Darn it? FU? You're a real potty mouth, kitten."

"Pfft. What can I say? I'm a good girl."

"Yah, a _real _good girl." He sucked hard on her calf and she arched off the bed. The languid ache disappeared, and she was filled with a frantic need egged on by her laughter. She wasn't close, but she wasn't far behind either. Her skin felt hot, tight and overly sensitized, not quite fitting over her body. She nuzzled the bed, rubbing her cheeks on the course coverlet, resembling a cat begging for a good petting. Spike was more than happy to oblige. He ran his hands up and down her legs, skimming over her injuries to press his fingertips against smooth, unmarred flesh.

"Nothin' so far?"

"W-what?" she asked in a daze. The rich baritone of his voice only added to the atmosphere of decadent pleasure permeating the room. It was becoming harder to muzzle out his words. Realizing she was lost in a haze of pleasure, she struggled to latch onto the conversation.

"Nothin' interestin' at uni?"

She wracked her brain. College seemed so far away to her. It wasn't where she belonged. She knew it and she couldn't escape the overwhelming feeling that everyone she met knew it as well. It made meeting new people difficult and awkward. She kept expecting them to accuse her of trespassing and throw her out of every building she walked into. College was for people who had bright, shiny futures. Slayers didn't have futures; they have destinies. She traced an infinity symbol on the coverlet, her face turned away from his. "We read Beowulf. It was kinda interesting. Slayer slaying the monster. It's just one long poem though."

"Lyrical ballad," Spike corrected. "J.R. Tolkien argued it was an elegy."

"Whatever."

Spike sighed against her skin, and her clit twitched. Again, he blamed the public school system. "What'dya think of Grendal's mother?"

"What do you mean?" She widened her legs and Spike prowled up her thighs. His knees were planted on the bed between her ankles, his hands pressed firmly into the backs of her knees so not to tickle her. His cool breath and tongue danced along her skin.

"Was she a monster?" His tone was silky. He sounded like he was hunting, and it made her insides twitch. The tingles across her nape tightened her skin, and she didn't realize she was forming fists until her fingernails snagged on the coverlet.

Buffy loosened her hands and concentrated on the question. "Of course she was. She killed people."

"Was she the monster or the guy who hung her sprog's arm up on the rafters like some sort of bleedin' trophy?" She could hear the snarl thicken his voice, and she answered with her own snide tension.

"Her kid was a monster. He was terrorizing people for years."

"Maybe, but does that make her a monster?" he reasoned. She hated it when he reasoned. "Did she deserve to be murdered in her own home only 'cause she was tryin' to retrieve her son's arm so she could give him a proper burial?"

"She got what she deserved," she replied tight-lipped. She was tense beneath him in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure, and everything to do with kicking his arse. Anger, tension, derision, bitterness. These were not emotions he wanted to engender in her. He wanted her pleasure, her ecstasy. He wanted her joy back. He nosed his way between her legs at the tops of her thighs, laving a lash that cut its way towards her front.

"You're right, luv. She's an evil monster," he soothed, using his tongue to coax her into relaxing.

"Don't call me that," she chirped in a small voice, somewhat aware she may have overreacted. She didn't like to think too deeply on the subject of good and evil and the rationalization of actions. She was the Slayer. She slayed evil. End of story. She didn't need to ruminate on supposed familial connections of the demon world and whether or not they knew the difference between right and wrong. That was a job for moralists, socialists and psych professors.

"Sorry, kitten." He tongued the lace of her panties barely covering her buttocks. They had once been white, but now they had a pinkish cast and were heady with blood and sex. There was a large rip in the seat, and he could scent blood and poison leaking from the wound. Spike nosed them aside just enough to run his tongue along the creased underside of her ass. "What about that psych class? Anythin' interestin' there?"

Buffy instantly thought of Riley. He had looked so completely dumbfounded when she tried to pass off her engagement to Spike as a joke. She still couldn't believe he bought it. It just told her how sweet he really was. He clearly wasn't someone who prevaricated. He was far to well mannered to lie like Parker or abandon her as Angel did. He was a long haul kinda guy. She imagined when he loved, he loved with all of his heart. He would most certainly cry at her funeral. If she were benevolent, she would run the other way, and spare him the heartache that was loving Buffy Summers. The thought of normal was too tempting though. The thought of being loved as a girl, and not as the slayer.

"There's a guy…" she hedged.

"Can't say I'm interested…pet." He bit an uninjured swathe of flesh with his dull teeth and she yelped.

"Well, you asked," she accused. Spike snickered at the laughter in her voice. It didn't matter if there _was _a guy. For now on Spike would be the _only _guy. He frowned at the idea. He needed to remember that he wasn't conditioning a slave, merely cultivating a little good will from the Slayer. It wouldn't be above board to expect anything more. She was the Slayer and he was a vampire. Their relationship could never be anything more than bloody.

He swept his hands under her panties, pulling the material towards the center and baring her ass. The material pulled taut along her clit and up the crack of her ass, urging her to cant back towards him. He attacked her wound with voraciousness, licking and sucking until she was bucking beneath him. He yanked back on her hips, levering her up slightly on her knees, her face still resting on the coverlet. The last wound on her backside clean, he buried his face in her pussy, sucking at her clit through her panties. She rocked back on his face, coming with sawing pants and little porno mewls of pleasure. He drank her up, wondering how it was possible it tasted better than her blood.

Her spasms of pleasure subsided and he withdrew from her in a flurry. The man and the demon were in complete concurrence. They needed to possess her now. His strong fingers banded around her ankles and with a powerful heave he flipped her onto her newly healed backside. He planted a knee on the bed, prowling up her body.

"Stop." Her voice shook and she barely had the breath to expel it beyond her lips, but he heard and obeyed. Even the demon obeyed. Her eyes were heavy lidded, her lips parted in pleading. "Please. I need a minute." _A minute?_ She needed an entire lifetime to recover. She had never felt so sexually satiated, and somehow she knew they hadn't even reached the pinnacle of their experience.

Spike growled. The sound was low and heavy, and rolled over her sensitive skin like static from an electrical storm. She tensed, watching as his eyes flashed amber. There was a constant ongoing war inside Spike as man and demon fought for supremacy. At any given moment the beast could win and no pain inducing chip was going to stop it from a feeding frenzy. She wasn't afraid. The man had been fighting the demon in Spike for over a hundred years. He was stronger than he even knew.

He backed off the bed, flinging himself into the leather chair. His cock throbbed with painful intensity and he lowered his zipper a couple of notches to relieve the tension. The swollen head peeked above the vee of his fly, weeping glistening precum in the moonlight. Spike's amber eyes dipped closed, his hand cupped over the mushroomed head of his cock. He squeezed hard, hoping the pain would serve to lessen his desire. It didn't. Breathing deeply, he fought to regain control. When he opened his eyes they were blue once more.

Buffy was crescent like on the bed, her pillow bulwarked against him. She was watching him with shadowed green eyes. He wondered if she felt pity for him. If she felt anything for him. He was just a monster. A soulless demon bent on blood and destruction. How could she possibly feel anything for him other than disgust?

"How you feelin', kitten?" He slouched in the chair, a lazy, debauched punk with Billy Idol hair and cockier than thou attitude.

"Better." Buffy pulled the pillow tight to her chest. Spike's hand was cupped over his fly, but she saw what was just beneath. Long, hard and thick. It practically begged her to get on her knees and swallow it down to the root. Before the night was through she knew his jeans would be off and it would be inside her. She wondered how she felt about that. She wondered why she had no intention of fighting it.

"Jus' like you wanted then," Spike nodded absently. There was a flash in the Slayer's eyes he immediately honed in on it. "Not what you wanted?" He cocked his scarred brow at her. She flushed and ducked her head in a mockery of innocence given what they just experienced together. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to her. She was both world weary and innocent. Someone who had seen too much of the wrong things and not enough of the right ones. Too much pain, not enough pleasure.

"The pain is gone for now," she hedged. She sucked in her lower lip, and he tightened his fist on the head of his cock. He vowed before the night was through he would taste that mouth of hers again. He wanted to make sure it was just as sweet without magic in the air.

"But?" he prodded. He ran his tongue across his teeth, not to entice her, but to glean every last drop of her he could. Her taste was still in his mouth, coating the insides in a thin film of liquid sunshine. He was already craving more. Needed more Buffy in his mouth.

"It never gets better." Suddenly her layered meaning became clear for him. Better for her wasn't a state of mind, it was a state of being. She wanted her world and her existence in it to be better. A state of being where she could be a wife, maybe a mother. At the very least an existence where she was a cherished lover. Better to her meant not being alone.

His gaze flicked to a dark corner of the room. Better wasn't something he could give the Slayer. Pleasure, bliss, satisfaction, those were things he could gift her with. Love, honor and companionship, those were normalcies that had no substance in their world.

"No, it never gets better," he confirmed with determination. He didn't look back to meet her eyes. He didn't want to see the disappointment and sorrow he knew to be lingering there. "But there are ways to dull the pain." He leaned over, fisting his hand in her pillow. She didn't resist when he pulled it away. Even whip lashed and bloody she was beautiful. She had small perky tits with cherry nipples, a narrow waist that flared into softly swelling hips, and her long muscled legs ended in dainty feet that could crush a man's skull with one powerful blow. She was fucking perfect. He pulled her close, running his open mouth along the arch of her foot even though there was no wound there. She bucked, but didn't try to get away. He had mastered her to his touch. She was his. He ignored the tiny voice that murmured he might be hers.

"Yeah. This is the most orgasms I've had in my entire life combined."

Spike's head shot up. "Wot?" The deepening of his East End accent displayed his shock.

She was suddenly embarrassed and tried to curl up into herself, but he refused to let her ankle go. He pulled her leg straight, bearing her vulnerability to him.

Feeling the quaver in her muscles, he realized he touched a nerve. He slicked his tongue along her ankle and she relaxed, his ministrations sending soothing vibes through her body. The fronts of her legs were relatively unscathed, and he was able to work his way to her knees quickly.

"So you don't have a nightly wank to help you off?" He whispered his question against her kneecap just to see the goose pimples form up her thigh. Even at his lowered angle he could see her face, and he found that being at her front was more pleasurable than at her back. This way he could see every nuance of pleasure as it ghosted over her face, see the expressiveness in the deep, green pools of her eyes.

She watched him, heady-lidded, her distorted body image all but disappeared. In Spike's eyes she was beautiful. He told her with the worship of his mouth. Her body was Spike's to do with as he pleased. There were no barriers between them.

She shook her head, and her hair tousled around her. "No. Dorm living. Roommate is five feet away. And—" she dropped her lashes, sheilding her eyes. He growled against her thigh, angry that she would attempt to hide from him. Her lashes lifted. "I've always felt like I'm being watched."

"Angel." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyways.

"He spent a lot of time in my tree," she imparted an amused snicker in her voice.

His snort of derision tickled the fine hairs on her leg. He nipped his way across her inner thigh, licking a wound he couldn't reach from the back. He hooked his thumbs in the elastic band of her panties. Mutely, she lifted her hips, and he slid them off and tossed them with his shirt.

"So, you've never?" He prowled up her body, and her thighs fell apart to allow him passage.

"No," she whispered when his mouth traced the apex of her thighs. "I've had dreams, and when I woke up…" she trailed off and by the awed expression in her face he could see the surprise and relief she must have felt waking to an orgasm. A young girl just hitting puberty, when sex was an exciting little secret. How dirty and wonderful it must have felt. Liberating.

He surprised her when he took her hand in his. He lowered himself so his head was pillowed on her upper thigh, his eyes still locked with hers. He brought her fingertips to his lips, his tongue wrapping around her fore and middle fingers. He sucked them into his mouth, and she gasped at how cool it was compared to a human's.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly. He slowly withdrew her fingers, scraping his teeth along their sensitive undersides.

"Showin' you how it's done. The world is in tears at the idea of a girl not knowin' how to wank."

She laughed. A tiny huff of air between her parted lips. She let him place her hand on her pussy, feeling boneless as he guided her fingers between her swollen lips. Her thighs fell further apart, and Spike shifted his weight so his head rested close enough to breath on her clit. He swirled her fingers around her oversexed nub, breathing hard when she rocked her hips.

"Be a good girl and play with your tits," he directed. She hesitated and he stopped the motion of their tangled hands. He could see her throat shimmer in the moonlight as she swallowed. Her free hand reached up to cup her breast, her thumb and forefinger tweaking her puckered, cherry nipple. He moved, teaching a simple rhythm. Swirling around her clit before plunging her fingers into her slick quim. She was a quick learner, and before long his hand on hers was just away to be connected to her as she pleasured herself. She rode her hand, her head thrown back as she arched into the ecstasy of her own touch.

"Open your eyes," he demanded when they started to drift shut under the onslaught of pleasure. She locked her eyes with his, mastered by him and mastering him at the same time. She was close, and a keen was starting in the back of her throat, when suddenly he exerted pressure and trapped her hand against her cunny. She whimpered with an agonizing sense of betrayal. He pressed her fingertips until they parted and the pink hood of her clit peeked between them. Eyes still locked with hers, he leaned forward and slicked the tip of his tongue along the insides of her fingers before tickling her clit. Her body arched like it was electrified. She couldn't prevent herself from closing her eyes, and he was too busy drinking her in to discipline her.

He slithered backwards of the bed as she gulped the last of her orgasm to the deepest dregs. He stood over her, hypnotized by her beauty. Her hand hid her sweet, quivering quim from his sight, her other hand cupping her breast. She was a living breathing Botticellian Venus rising from the sea, painted in luxurious jeweled hues. He shucked his jeans, shuddering when the air caressed his painfully hard dick.

He was back before she could draw another ragged breath, pinning her hips with his hands as he sucked liquid candy from a cut on her sharply angled pelvis bone. She arched, skimming her nails across his skull as she furrowed her fingers through his hair. She pressed him closer, lifting her hip to his mouth when he hummed in pleasure.

"No one's ever did that before." Her tone was breathy and full of feminine satisfaction. He slid an open mouth kiss along her bone, pressing his tongue tight against her skin, before lifting his head to look at her.

"What?"

"Use their mouth down there."

"Angel never did?" Parker he could believe to be a selfish git, but he figured Angel would have wanted to taste what he claimed as his.

"We only did it the one time." Her voice sad and small. More bad days, heaped on worst days. How could she explain to him the supposed one best day of her past was tangled together with pain and suffering, twisting and turning it until it became a ragged scar that still wept with poison from time to time.

"That's sex, kitten. This is foreplay. There's no limit on it. It can go on and on." He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, gratified when her breath caught in her throat.

"He never wanted too." How many hours had it been she wondered. How long had their foreplay stretched on. The night seemed endless, dawn a dream that would never be realized.

Spike could see the bruise in her eyes that went deeper than the Sweet Agony in her blood. Rejection was a poison you never recovered from. He should know. It tore you down into a quivering, caricature of yourself that was never fully erased no matter how much you rubbed. The indentations of their abuses indelible on the paper thin membranes of the heart and soul. Attempts to redraw yourself from scratch usually meant using the blueprints of other people's perceptions of you. Unfortunately, those perceptions had a way of rebuilding you wrong. Turning you into a paragon of what they imagine you to be, not who you really are.

"He knew once he started, he'd never stop. Never let you go," he etched his conviction of her siren desirability across her skin, urging her to believe the worship in his words. "Once he tasted you, once he had you. You'd be a craving in his blood." He tried not to think what his words meant for him. How much he was affected by her.

"But he did let me go," she intoned. Her words of self-destruction just as powerful as his worship. "I was always his, but he was never mine. You're supposed to free the ones you love. Well, he did all right. He set me free like I was a pet canary in a gilded cage."

He surged up her body. Her thighs parted, and his heavy erection burrowed along her lips, resting just outside her sheath. He tucked his arms beneath her, so her weight was cradled tightly to him.

"Same here," he confessed. He drowned in her wide green eyes, wondering if it was possible to lose a soul in a moment of perfect happiness then was it be possible to gain one in this moment of perfect sorrow. "Nothing more than a pretty pet she tired of. She knew I'd never wander away, even if she left the cage door open. She had to drive me off with cruelty and hate."

A tear escaped and slid into her hair. He wasn't sure whose it was. Eyes wide open, he slashed his mouth over hers, and suddenly he knew that everything he had tasted during the spell was true. He rocked forward, sliding deep inside her. She was hot and wet, and the absolute paradigm of heaven.

This was the final part of the conditioning. He was supposed to lock her wrists over her head, let her know that it was him doing this to her, that it was him generating her pleasure, _not_ the slick slide of their bodies together. But he couldn't resist her nails scraping over his ribs, drawing him closer to her with wordless pleas. The sinuous twining of her arms around his back as he sank deeper into her. The gentle, insistent pull of her quim, drawing him closer to her heat. To her. He fitted the mosaic of her life together and he saw the person behind the Slayer. Not just the girl who lost her heart, not the woman who would never have the normal she craved, not the warrior who desired an equal. He saw them all together in the imperfect patchwork of humanity that made up Buffy.

He arched his back in a deep convex, his hips still flexing into her. His ravenous mouth searched out the rest of her wounds, cleaning them with frantic sucks and flat-tongued licks. He twirled his tongue around her hard pink nipple, before laving a slash across the fleshy weight of her breast. His black chipped nails were dark against her golden skin as he pinched her hips, pulling her down onto his cock while he laid open mouth kisses along a wound on her neck. He was seated deep inside her, their bodies pressed tightly together from hip to collarbone, and the only wound left was the one on her cheek. She was feverish with need, tossing her head back and forth, her breath sawing in and out in time with his thrusts.

"No more pain," she begged him, lost in the torrent that was him as he drove into her.

"No more pain," he promised wishing he could make it true. No more punches, kicks or stabs. No more insults, rejections and self-doubts. He would take them all away with the magic of his tongue if he could. He fisted his hand in her honey colored hair, his knuckles curling against her skull. Reined in by her hair, her lashes fluttered and he could see sparks of jade. He levered her face to the side, and ran his tongue along the cut on her cheek, pistoning his hips in time with the swipes. She watched him with hazy, passion-bruised eyes, her teeth nibbling the edge of his jaw.

"One more kiss. Make it all come true," she beseeched.

He covered her mouth, sliding his tongue along hers in deep, searching licks, as if he could heal the wounds inside her soul, just as easily as the ones on her body. The beat of her heart, and the possessive growls in his throat became new chants of worship for them. An invocation of their own higher state of being where everything was better, and everything was obtainable, even the crazy dreams of belonging.

She tightened up around him, and he couldn't tell where he ended and she began. He was in deeper than he'd ever been before. Deep inside where it went beyond the physical, into something more, something stupid and crazy and completely impossible for a Slayer and a Vampire. She shattered apart around him, and he gathered her up in his arms, trying to keep her together, but all to soon he was falling to pieces with her.

When his brain reset and he came to, he felt like he was put together wrong. Like maybe pieces of her got caught up in him and maybe some parts of him were lost with her. But they couldn't form up together and make all the pieces fit because they were lost, separated from each other by the reality of who and what they were. Spike slowly slipped away from her, suppressing the irrational urge to sooth her discontented whimpers. She grabbed his wrists, and looked at him with big green eyes that showed the world all her pain.

"Don't go. Don't ever go." Her eyes were bruised, and he knew she was still locked away in their moment of time together. But their moment was gone, and reality was a ravenous bitch that ate up dreams like they were lollies on a hot summer day.

"I'll be back." He could tell she didn't believe the small smile that came with his words and for one insane moment he wanted to tear his heart out of his chest and hand it to her. Instead, he resolutely walked out of the room, bare-arsed naked as the day he was born.

The Watcher was slumped in the hall, leaning against the far wall. He struggled to stand as Spike closed the bedroom door, an empty bottle of scotch rolling away towards the stairs.

"Is she—"

"Stop!" Spike growled and the barely leashed animal intensity froze the Watcher in a half crouch. "She's not ready yet."

He walked passed Giles into the upstairs bath where he set the dials to the shower at a comfortable temperature. When he exited he jerked his chin towards the stairs, wordlessly ordering the other man down. The Watcher flashed him a glassy-eyed, mutinous look that was quickly quelled under the Master Vampire's glare. Giles didn't know what had happened over the course of the evening, but the sick, sinking pit in his stomach made him want to rage at the enormity of it all.

Spike gently gathered up Buffy close to his chest and took her to the bathroom. He held her up in the shower, watching as the pink tinges of blood swirled down the drain, leaving her golden skin mostly unscathed. The majority of her wounds were already healed, only the deepest and nastiest still stitching together. She leaned heavily on his chest as he massaged shampoo into her hair, pink suds gliding down her body. He resisted the urge to slip his hardened cock in her from behind, knowing their time had passed, and he no longer had the excuse of conditioning to touch her as he liked.

He wanted to. God, he wanted. He was pretty sure she'd let him. But somewhere in the back of the unused portion of his brain, where the poncy poet still lived, he was screaming that it wouldn't be right to take advantage of her now, especially when she was blitzed out of her mind with languid pleasure and sleep deprivation. Once every trace of blood had been washed down the drain, he turned off the water and wrapped her in a fluffy towel. She was practically asleep on her feet by the time he gathered her up in his arms again.

Back in the bedroom, he dragged the ruined coverlet off the bed with one hand and pulled back the neatly folded sheets. He tucked her under the crisp white sheets, and found a blanket at the top of the closet to tuck around her. He was dressed and watching her from the doorway when the first vestiges of sunlight marched vengefully through the room chasing away the duplicitous night. He closed the door behind him, nodding to the Watcher, before crawling back into the downstairs tub like the monster he was.

THE END


End file.
